


Up To Speed

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: 25 Days of Johnlock [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Love/Hate, M/M, Motorcycles, Oral Sex, Rugby, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>Prompt:</b> Hate/lust at first sight slowly turning into love - anon</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Prompt:</b> Competition gingerbread [sort of, but there will be more cookie-related ones] - ICanStopAnyTimeIWant</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Prompt:</b> How about some teenlock with Sherlock having a motorcycle and just wearing a leather outfit thingy and John being all flustered when he sees him - vticancameox</i>
</p>
<p>John doesn't know what he did to deserve this, but, whatever it takes to atone for it, he is more than willing to try, because, if he has to spend one more second with Sherlock Holmes, he might spontaneously combust. Or strangle him. He's currently undecided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up To Speed

**Author's Note:**

> **References:**  
>  \- [motorcycle](http://www.triumphmotorcycles.co.uk/motorcycles/bonneville/2015/bonneville-t100-black).  
> \- [jacket](http://www.triumphmotorcycles.co.uk/clothing/riding/leather-jackets/raven-jacket-mlhs13005?returnUrl=/clothing/leather-jackets).  
> \- black treacle = molasses in American English
> 
> These are taking forever, I know, but I'm halfway through my finals, and this one has porn, so...forgive me?
> 
> While I cannot guarantee I will be able to write your prompt, there is always a lot of overlap and/or combining, so feel free to keep submitting them to me up until the end of the series! You can leave your prompts in comments here on ao3, or on [my Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/).

John stood outside the office, hand hovering above the handle, fingers twitching in hesitation, but he was fairly certain he hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, being told to visit a teacher after school always made you consider everything you’d ever done wrong in your life, so, fully prepared to own up to that pen he never returned two years ago, John took a breath, knocking on the door in introduction as he pushed inside.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Calder?” he said, scanning across to the biology teacher, a middle-aged man with grey-flecked hair and a questionable preference for novelty ties.

“John!” he chirped, waving John in with a bright smile as he leaned forward over his desk, revealing the candy-cane-patterned accessory he’d chosen today. “Yes, come in, come in! Have a seat,” he offered, waving a hand at one of the two chairs in front of the large wooden desk.

John stepped forward, pulling his backpack off his shoulder as he sat down, settling the bag to the floor at his ankles.

“So,” Mr. Calder said, threading his fingers together beneath his chin, “how’s your last year been going for you so far? I hear you’re really whipping the rugby team into shape,” he added with a grin, and John chuckled.

“We’re all working very hard, sir,” he said with a nod, and Mr. Calder smiled.

“Not too hard, I hope,” he cautioned, unfolding his hands to shuffle a few papers in front of him. “Wouldn’t want your grades to suffer. Especially not now that you’re filling out university applications”

John shook his head, swallowing down the knot of nerves that always reappeared at any mention of higher education. “No, sir,” he assured, shaking his head. “I’m doing fine.”

Mr. Calder beamed, clicking the edge of a small stack of paper on the desk to level it. “Well, good,” he replied, and then set the papers aside, leaning up toward him, “because I was wondering if you could help me with something. Feel free to say no, though; the last thing I want is to overburden you.”

John blinked, a faint frown pinching at his forehead. “Um, alright,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “What-What is it you need help with, sir?”

“Well, I’m in rather a tight spot, ya see,” the man muttered, grimacing faintly as he leaned back into his chair. “You know the Christmas festival we put on for the primary school every year?” he asked, and John nodded. “Well, every department is supposed to have a booth, and I volunteered to plan the biology one,” he began, rolling his hands in the air between them, “but my wife’s going through a bit of a rough time with the pregnancy, and- Well, I was hoping you could help out. Just a couple afternoons a week after school, nothing that would interfere with your studies, but…well, you helped out last year, and...” He shrugged, flashing a grimace of apology. “So,” he clipped, elbows returning to the edge of the desk, “whadya think? And, again, if you think it would be too much-”

“No, I-” John interrupted, shaking his head as he swallowed. “That would be fine, sir,” he said, nodding, and Mr. Calder lit up like the fire hazard of a Christmas tree he had plugged into the corner. “I’m sure I can manage that.”

“Excellent!” the man exclaimed, clapping his hands together, and John scrambled hastily to standing as Mr. Calder rounded the desk. “You’re saving my life here, John, really. Any more letters of recommendation you need written, don’t hesitate to ask.”

John chuckled, dropping his head as he rattled it. “No, I think I’m all set on those. Got the last of my applications in last week.”

“Ah, really?” Mr. Calder said, evidently impressed. “Well, you’re ahead of the curve, then. But, I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise. You apply to King’s?”

“Yes, sir,” John confirmed, smiling up at the professor, who beamed at the mention of his alma mater. “And Bart’s and Imperial. As well as a few others outside the city.”

“Well, any of them would be lucky to have you,” Mr. Calder assured, and John ducked his head as he stepped through the door, blushing a little at the praise.

“Thank you, sir,” he muttered with a small smile, which Mr. Calder brightly returned, leaning out his office door as John turned back toward him in the corridor.

“I’ll set you two up tomorrow. I believe you’re done at 2:30, correct?” he asked, and John just nodded, not particularly surprised Mr. Calder had proactively checked. “Great, we can meet in my office. I have a few ideas already,” he said, moving to turn back inside, but John called him back.

“Professor!” he beckoned, and the man’s head poked out through a crack in the door, eyebrow rising. John shifted at the strap of his backpack, trainers squeaking on the tile. “Um, two?” he questioned, and Mr. Calder frowned. “You said you’d set us _two_ up. Who else is helping out?”

“Oh!” Mr. Calder laughed, pushing the door open wider as he leaned against the frame. “I forgot! Probably something you’d want to know, eh?” he chuckled, and John smiled politely back. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, and he made it sound simple, as if there was no cause for John’s stomach to go plummeting through the floor. “He’s in my other class. Brilliant boy,” he mused, shaking his head down at the ground with a frown, “but no discipline. You know him?”

“I- No, not-not really,” John replied, shaking his head as he tried to swallow through a parched throat, and Mr. Calder smiled down at him, apparently oblivious.

“Well, then,” he grinned, tapping at the doorframe as he stepped backward into his office, “I guess it will be a learning experience for all of us. See you tomorrow!”

“Er, yeah,” John managed to mumble in reply, nodding up at the professor, “see ya then.”

Mr. Calder tossed him another nod, and then closed the door, leaving John alone in the empty corridor.

John at least moved away from loitering outside the door, feet hitting hard to the tile as he raced around the corner, and then stopped, his spine crashing back into the lockers as he breathed up at the ceiling, eyes pinching shut. He groaned, letting his head fall limply forward, and then blinked at his trainers, a full minute passing by around him before he lifted his face again. With a hiss of a frustrated sigh, he rattled his head, continuing toward the exit as he wondered just what god he’d pissed off to deserve this.

*****

There was nothing explicitly wrong with Sherlock Holmes.

He got good grades, didn’t cause any particular amount of trouble, mostly kept to himself, and was pretty average looking if you imagined the world was made up of Victorian-era-vampire types. He’d transferred to Rosemond last year at the start of sixth form, hardly an unusual occurrence, but the squealing into the car park on a black Bonneville T100 had been a nice touch, nearly running over a group of girls who had immediately started cursing at him, and then abruptly stopped as he pulled off his black helmet and shook his curls loose in a display that time slowed to accommodate. He’d been bullied exactly once, one of John’s rugby teammates getting _awfully_ creative and tossing a ‘faggot’ at him as he passed Sherlock at his locker, and what had followed had been the single most impressive verbal dressing-down John had ever borne witness to, ultimately revealing their fullback—Kevin—was cheating on his current girlfriend and hadn’t quit smoking after all.

After that, no one had talked to him much, and he didn’t seem particularly bothered by it either, reading in corners and sitting in the back of classes. And watching. He was always watching.

John wasn’t one to buy into rumors, but he couldn’t help but hear them, and, considering Sherlock’s not-so-polite refusal of every girl who had asked him out since he’d arrived—which was pretty much all of them—the running theory was that he was gay. Of course, he hadn’t shown any interest in any _men_ either—not obviously, at least—but…well, he was _always_ watching! And maybe John was being paranoid, but it seemed like Sherlock was always watching _him_.

He popped up everywhere, always already looking at John when he turned around to check the clock at the back of the classroom—which was all he’d been doing, of course—and _smirking_ at him for some reason. He was never in the stands when John had a game, but he appeared almost magically after all of them, leaning against one of the supports of the bleachers, ankles crossed and arms folded within that ridiculous leather jacket he was always wearing, even when it was way too hot outside and there was _no_ good reason for it. He caught John’s eyes in the hallways, in the car park before he flipped down his visor and put on a show as he squealed out, and when he arrived with the same screeching maneuver, and John was pretty damn tired of it, to be honest. If Sherlock would just _talk_ to him, that he could deal with, but the _staring_ and the _smirking_ and the _fucking_ leather _jacket_!? It was all too much, and John was about ten seconds away from demanding an explanation. After he said something else to the boy first, of course, because opening with confrontations was not the best way to build relationships. Not that he was interested in that sort of thing anymore.

John paced outside Mr. Calder’s office, careful to stop short of the frosted window. He could hear voices inside, low and deep and _definitely_ half Sherlock—the brunette had done a presentation in Chemistry earlier in the semester, which was the only reason John knew—but he still had forty five seconds until 2:30, so he wasn’t technically late yet; he could afford a bit more breathing time. He stopped, leaning against the wall a moment, knee bobbing anxiously as he tightened his grip on the strap of his backpack. Looking up at the ceiling, he closed his eyes, blowing out a final steadying breath, and then dropped his chin, giving himself a stern nod before striding forward and opening the door.

Mr. Calder turned to him from where he was perched on the front of his desk, smiling broadly. “John!” he greeted, waving him in with a hand. “Have a seat, have a seat! We were just getting started.”

John didn’t respond, didn’t even hear him right away, his mind narrowed down to the man sitting in one of the chairs, his back to the doorway.

Slowly, he turned, dark curls catching the light filtering through the blinds, and then grey eyes were peering up at him, rooting him to the spot. Sherlock looked entirely nonchalant for a moment, blinking up at the new arrival, and then, in just the slightest twitch of his mouth that nevertheless spoke volumes, he smirked.

John stuttered over a blink and looked away, swallowing hard as flames burst from his collar, and then walked around the other chair, taking the seat beside the brunette, who he could still see watching him out of the corner of his eye. He clenched his hands together in his lap, eyes set determinedly forward, and he’d swear he saw Sherlock’s teeth glint in a brief grin before he too turned to Mr. Calder.

“I was just telling Sherlock about my idea,” Mr. Calder said, turning back to his desk and plucking something off the surface. When he turned back, he had what appeared to be a cookie cutter in his hand, the white plastic having some sort of imprint on the interior. “I bought these a couple years ago,” he explained, passing the object to John. “Used them for a Halloween party, but I think they’ll work for this just as well.”

It was a cookie cutter, a gingerbread man specifically, but, as John turned it over in his hands, he noticed there were embossed bones on the interior, creating a skeleton that would imprint into the surface of the dough.

“I thought we could make a bunch of these,” he said, collecting the cookie cutter as John handed it back, “and have frosting and jimmies and such there, and then the kids can decorate however many they pay for. You can fill in the bones with frosting real easy; it’s actually pretty cool.” He smiled down at the device, looking especially childish in his snowman tie, and John dropped his face to his lap to hide his smile. “Of course, you guys would have to make the cookies,” Mr. Calder continued, giving John the cutter again, and John’s stomach twisted, “but I’ve already cleared it with the home economics department for you to use the kitchen, and there’s still two weeks left, so you could pick away at it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock said, and John’s nails dug into his palms as his fists clenched, eyes lingering a little long on a blink. “I mentioned the plan to my landlady last week when you first told me about it, and she’s already insisted we use her gingerbread recipe, which she won’t allow to leave the premises, so”—he shrugged a shoulder—“we’ll likely be using her kitchen.”

“What?” John spluttered, belatedly realizing that was the first word he’d ever spoken to Sherlock Holmes, and he _really_ wished his voice hadn’t squeaked on it.

Sherlock, for his part, turned to him benignly, quirking an inquiring brow.

“Your-Your landlady?” he stammered, trying to simultaneously look Sherlock in the eye and not lose track of his thoughts. “At-At your house?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched around a stifled smirk, and John nearly swallowed his tongue. “Yes,” he replied, eyes searching over John’s face. “Problem?”

John opened his mouth, looking between Mr. Calder and Sherlock, the latter of which lifted a smug eyebrow, and John’s jaw clenched stubbornly in response. “No,” he answered, confidently meeting Sherlock’s eyes, which widened slightly, as if surprised. He then turned back to Mr. Calder, hitching up a small smile. “Sounds like a great idea, sir,” he said, stowing the cookie cutter into the backpack at his feet, and Sherlock might have sniffed, might have snorted.

“Excellent!” Mr. Calder chirped, sliding off the front of his desk, inviting them to stand with a wave of his hand. “Just tell me what you spend on supplies. I figure we’ll charge a quid or two per cookie, but it all goes to charity anyway.” He opened the door of his office, beckoning them out with an extended arm, and John passed through first, feeling Sherlock just behind him. “I’ve got a meeting to get to right now, but I’ll check in with you two later in the week. Let me know if you have any problems, yeah?” he added, smiling as John nodded. “Alright then. Good luck!” he bade over his shoulder, and John watched his retreating back until it passed around the corner, wondering if Mr. Calder had any idea how much luck this would actually require.

Sherlock was still standing behind him, a presence prickling at the back of his neck, and, with a steeling breath, he turned, thankfully managing not to derail his train of thought this time when he was met with the grey eyes, which had a little blue in them now that John was so close.

“So, um,” he stammered, swallowing down at the man’s shoes, “we should probably, er, swap numbers or something.” He flicked a hand between them, trying very hard not to blush, but he appeared to be failing, at least if Sherlock’s small smile was any indication. “So we can, um, coordinate. For the-the thing.” He coughed, bobbing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction Mr. Calder had gone, and Sherlock dropped his face, not entirely hiding his smirk.

“Alright,” he replied, lifting his head as he held out a hand, and John blinked down at the pale digits in confusion. “Your mobile?” Sherlock prompted, twitching his fingers in a beckoning curl, and John started, sure he was an entirely different caliber of red now.

“Oh, er, right,” he murmured, fishing his phone out of his pocket, and then passed it to Sherlock, who promptly turned around and started walking away down the corridor. John blinked at his back, momentarily dumbfounded by both the action, and the way the black leather jacket framed his shoulders, and then rushed after him, backpack bouncing against his spine. “Hey!” he called, taking at least two strides to every one of the brunette’s. “What are you doing?”

“Putting my number in, per your request,” Sherlock muttered, never turning around as he swiped at the surface of John’s mobile.

“Well, yeah, but-”

“What are you doing after school tomorrow?” Sherlock interjected, pushing out the door toward the car park, John racing along in his wake.

“What am I- Why?” he asked, and Sherlock flashed a small sidelong glance at him.

“It seems like the most logical time to buy ingredients,” he answered, weaving around parked cars, John twisting and turning behind him as he tried to accommodate the bulk of his backpack. “Then we can make the cookies over the weekend.”

“Oh,” John murmured, clearing his throat. “Um, nothing. I-I’m not doing-”

“Good,” Sherlock chirped, tossing John’s phone over his shoulder with a flick of his wrist, and John pulled up short, fumbling a bit on the catch. “We can take the bus to Sainsbury’s. I’ll get a cab into school.” He shifted his backpack around to his front, pulling out his black motorcycle helmet, quite possibly the only thing in there.

“Um, okay,” John replied dazedly, and Sherlock smirked at him through the open visor as he pulled the helmet on, zipping up his jacket in one swift stroke.

“Okay,” he echoed, eyes dancing teasingly, but he turned away to his motorcycle before John could summon up a decent glare. In a move far too graceful for someone straddling over 200kg of steel, he swung a leg over the bike, the dark denim pulling tight over his long limbs as he settled into the seat, and John had a sudden dizzy spell he didn’t feel like looking too closely at at the moment. Sherlock flicked back the kickstand, wrapping his bare fingers around the handlebars, and then tipped his head up to John. “You might wanna step back,” he said, and John blinked at him, frowning in confusion that was only met with another impish smile. He dropped a hand to the side of the bike, and the motorcycle roared to life, startling John back with a bitten-off yelp. Sherlock just chuckled, resettling his hands into position as he revved the engine. With a smirk the devil himself would’ve been proud of, he looked back up to John, lifting a hand to his visor. “See ya around, Cap,” he said with a wink he must have practiced, and then his eyes disappeared behind the black shield, the bike screeching away from John a second later.

John stared after him, clutching his mobile in his hand so tightly, he might have to break his fingers to get it free. Finally, when Sherlock was long out of sight, he blew out the breath held captive in his lungs, the hot air misting against the damp chill of what had so far been an uncharacteristically mild winter, and turned around to head to his own car. He stumbled a bit on the first step, his knees wobbling beneath him, and, as he steadied himself on the boot of nearby car, he lifted the hand still wrapped around the mobile to his chest, feeling his heart pounding through his rugby jacket.

“Fuck,” he breathed, shaking his head down at the metal, and, as he closed his eyes, Sherlock’s eyes sparked brightly through the darkness.

*****

“Black treacle?” John muttered, frowning down at the list in his hand. “What the hell is black treacle?”

“It’s like syrup,” Sherlock replied, leaning over his shoulder, and John flinched as his breath ghosted over his ear, “but thicker. And, well, black.” He shrugged, turning once again to the opposite side of the aisle, where he was turning over different containers of various spices, looking for a specific type Mrs. Hudson had apparently insisted on.

“So, it’d be with the syrup?” he asked, and the back of Sherlock’s head tipped. John glared at his curls. “Helpful,” he clipped, and Sherlock turned, already grinning.

“Find someone to ask if you like,” he replied, shrugging a shoulder. “I don’t work here.”

“Clearly,” John snapped, because he could think of nothing better, and Sherlock closed his mouth, lifting his brows as if to say he’d expected more from him. John clenched his jaw, the list tightening in his palm, and then twisted on his heels, stomping away toward the appropriate aisle. He couldn’t relax until he rounded the corner, Sherlock’s eyes on him the whole time, and then he leaned against the endcap, closing his eyes and breathing at the ceiling to steady his thundering heart.

Sherlock was going to kill him, he was sure of it. He’d eaten scarcely a thing since they’d finally met properly yesterday, his stomach rolling with nervous nausea, and he hadn’t slept more than a couple hours, his eyes heavy and head aching. Perhaps it was something in the boy’s shampoo or aftershave, some ingredient John was allergic to that was making his throat close up and heart rate skyrocket whenever Sherlock looked at him. Whatever the reason, John felt like he was losing his mind, caught between wanting to strangle Sherlock every time he smirked at him, and wanting to do a few more intimate things he’d needed to take a very long shower that morning to forget he’d dreamt about.

John had had crushes on people before, men and women, his sexuality crisis long since passed, but _this_!? This was something else entirely, a volcano bubbling just beneath the surface of every moment he spent with the boy, the sexual tension thickening the air around them, choking him like ash, and Sherlock seemed to be actively making it worse, smirking and brushing his leg against John’s on the bus and getting adorably excited about the upcoming projects in Chemistry. And then he’d say something, some innocuous comment that was only innuendo because he did that _thing_ with his eyebrows, and John would want to punch him again, furious at himself for blushing, and at Sherlock for playing him like a fool. Or a violin. Which he apparently played. The bastard.

He huffed a frustrated sigh, pushing up from what turned out to be a cereal sale display and wandering along the edge of the aisles, scanning down each for something that looked like syrup. Finally, he found it, and was just turning over bottle after bottle in his hand, wondering what difference organic would really make, when there was a voice at his shoulder.

“That one’s fine,” Sherlock said, and John gasped, leaping away from the sound.

He glared, watching as a corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Don’t _do_ that!” he spouted, and Sherlock folded his arms, their basket hanging off one of his wrists.

“Do what?” he inquired innocently, but the glint in his eyes betrayed the act.

John narrowed his eyes, hand gripping tightly to the bottle. “Sneak up on people,” he snapped, dropping the black treacle roughly into the basket, Sherlock’s arms bobbing with the added weight. “You should at least cough, or-or something.”

Sherlock quirked a brow, and John’s stomach was already braced for impact. “I’m not sure this is quite the setting for that particular examination, Dr. Watson,” he remarked offhandedly, smirking as John choked on his own tongue.

He coughed, clearing his throat, and then simply glared at the boy, his back tightening into knots he would need a decade to work out. “Is that everything?” he snapped, looking down at the contents of the basket, no longer able to meet Sherlock’s eyes, and the brunette nodded in his peripheral vision. “Good,” he bit, twisting on his heels toward the register, Sherlock chuckling softly behind him as he followed.

*****

It was probably just a friend. Or a cousin. Brother, maybe?

John turned yet again over his shoulder, finding Sherlock’s figure in the stands.

The boy didn’t normally come to watch practices, only games, but, nevertheless, there he was, his legs stretched over two rows of bleachers as he looked down over the pitch through the mist.

That wasn’t the part that was troubling John, though, the part that made him end practice a record ten minutes early before he ruptured a blood vessel, no longer able to even _think_ straight through the rage.

A blond man sat next to Sherlock, hair glowing fake bottle-white from here, and had been shuffling closer all through the practice he wasn’t watching, instead talking constantly with the brunette, who, to his credit, radiated apathy.

John, on the other hand, had stuttered over play-calling at least four times, his mind so occupied with elaborate scenarios of throwing blondie off the back of the bleachers, and his muscles were a mess of tension as he made his way to the locker room, shoulders aching with the pressure. He took a long time in the shower, letting the water beat down on him until it was cold, and, when he reemerged, the locker room was empty, blissful quiet settling over his ears.

Finally able to breathe, he nearly forgot about Sherlock’s ex who wanted to reconcile—a sentiment Sherlock didn’t share in John’s fictionalized scenario, of course—until he was leaving the locker room, the recollection creeping back into him as surely as the cold.

“So, I was thinking,” a voice suddenly said from his left, and John did yelp that time, rounding on a familiar shadow beneath the bleachers. “We could make the cookies Sunday,” Sherlock continued without missing a beat, his hands in the pockets of his jeans where he leaned against a metal support, “and then go into Monday if we had to. Or we could start tomorrow night after your game, if you think you’d be up to it.”

John’s teeth ground together, his nails once again pushing into the probably permanent crescents carved into his palms. “I told you to stop doing that!” he barked, and Sherlock blinked at him, genuinely alarmed for once. “Do I have to put a bloody _bell_ on you, for chrissake!?”

The eyebrow did the thing again, and John rolled his eyes, so not in the mood.

“If you’d like,” Sherlock replied, and John scoffed, hitching his rugby bag up onto his shoulder as he barreled past the boy toward his car. “Woah, wait!” he called, his tone bereft of its usual calculated air for once, and John gleaned a certain sick satisfaction from it, Sherlock rushing to keep up with him for once. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking curiously down at John as he drew level to his shoulder.

“Nothing,” John snipped, and Sherlock swept in front of him, cutting off his path.

“No, you’re upset with me,” he said, strangely earnest, and John dropped his eyes away. “Why? What did I do? Was it the sneaking up on you thing? Because I don’t mean to do that, really, I just have a very light step. I had to sneak out past my older brother’s bedroom when I was younger, so I-”

“Why are you here?” John interjected, glaring furiously up at him, his fingers wrapped white around the strap of his bag.

Sherlock blinked, atypical uncertainty creasing his expression. “I-I don’t know what you-”

“Why are you here? At practice?” John stepped forward, flinging an arm out toward the pitch in rough gesture, and Sherlock staggered a step back, eyes wide. “Why are you _always_ here?”

Sherlock shook his head, mouth shifting mutely. “I-I don’t-”

“Yes, you do!” John shouted, and Sherlock flinched. “You’re always around! Always popping up and-and _staring_ at me!”

“Staring at you!?” Sherlock echoed, shock slipping away to anger. “What are you _talking_ about? I don’t _stare_ at you!”

“Yes, you do!” John shouted, lifting up toward the boy’s face, and then immediately having to back away at the conflicted flutter in his chest at being that close. “Every time I turn around, you’re always watching me!”

“You _turn around_!” Sherlock countered, and wasn’t that just the point of the century. “I’m the one looking where I’m supposed to be: at the _teacher_!”

“Oh, please,” John scoffed, rattling his head, “as if you ever pay attention. And I’m looking at the clock.”

“You wear a watch,” Sherlock snapped, nodding down at his wrist, and blood rushed to John’s face so fast, his head spun.

“Just…stop it, okay!?” he snarled, and Sherlock shook his head, perplexed.

“Stop _what_!?”

“ALL OF IT!”

Sherlock stepped back, hand lifting in front of him in instinctive defense.

John’s breath hissed as it dragged in and out of his lungs, his eyes stinging with a fury he couldn’t even call that, the feeling that thrummed through his veins something more wild that even the reddest rage. “Stop staring at me, stop following me, stop showing up at _my_ practices to flirt with your fucking _boyfriend_ -”

“What the _hell_ are you-”

“I saw you!” John shouted, though his own mind was shouting at him to turn the hell back. “You and that-that _guy_!” he spat, waving a hand above them to the stands, and Sherlock’s mouth dropped open.

“ _Victor_?!” he spluttered, eyes nearly popping out. “He’s not my boyfriend; I don’t even have a boyfriend! And what would it matter to you anyway?” he barked, rattling his head. “It’s not like it’s interfering with your practice!”

“Of course it is!”

“Why!?”

“Because it is!”

“WHY!?”

“BECAUSE I DON’T WANNA SEE IT!!” His throat ripped in two with the shriek, and Sherlock stumbled back, chest curling in as if John had struck him, and, a second too late, John realized why. He closed his mouth, swallowing around his shame as he stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Sherlock, I- I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock muttered, and, however much he’d tortured John the past few days, this was the worst, his voice falling over John like broken glass, and he winced at the pain of it. “Mrs. Hudson and I can manage the gingerbread,” he said, slowly backing away toward the shadows. “You don’t even have to show up on the day, if you’d prefer. I’m sure I can handle it.”

“Sherlock, no, I-” John started, but Sherlock turned from him, moving back out toward the car park. “Sherlock!” he called to no effect. “Sherlock, wait!”

But Sherlock did not, his dark figure eventually disappearing as he reached the crest of the hill, his steps not once wavering.

John waited until he heard the roar of the motorcycle, and then sighed, leaning against one of the supports as he slid down to the ground. He hung his head between his knees, breathing deeply as bile rose up his throat, but, this time, the only person he could blame was himself.

*****

Halfway through the game, and Sherlock still hadn’t shown up, though John had text him approximately two hundred times that he was sorry. He’d stopped just short of calling, but that was a line he was going to have to cross now, his game suffering something horrendous for the lack of the boy in the stands.

Popping out of the locker room during the halftime break, his mobile stuffed secretly into the waistband of his shorts, he hid around the back of the building, scrolling through to find Sherlock’s name.

“John?”

He didn’t jump, too accustomed to Sherlock popping up everywhere to be so easily startled, but his heart nevertheless skipped a beat as Mary Morstan poked her head around the corner of the brick building.

“What are you doing?” she asked, tilting her head at him as she drew closer, but paused as John stepped away.

“I-I was just gonna make a call,” he explained, rattling the mobile in the air for her to see, and she smiled, giving him a small nod.

“Well, be quick about it,” she cautioned, turning back toward the pitch. “Only got a few more minutes.”

“Right. Thanks,” John muttered, and she flashed a last smile over her shoulder before disappearing once again, and John realized belatedly he hadn’t flirted with her at all, something he’d been rather religious about the past few months. Too little too late now, he waited until she was out of earshot, and then finished swiping down his contacts list, tapping Sherlock’s name and hoping for the best.

“I would’ve thought forty-three unanswered text messages would speak for-”

“It’s not a gay thing,” John blurted, and was met with absolute silence. “What-What I said,” he continued, a little surprised to have gotten this far. “It-It wasn’t. That’s not what it was about.” He shook his head, running a hand back through his hair as he waited.

“What _was_ it about, then?” Sherlock asked, and John swallowed, unprepared for the question even though he’d expected it.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, pacing along the side of the building. “I-I just-” He stopped, just breathing, and just as he was beginning to panic, beginning to realize he wasn’t quite ready to do any of this at all, Sherlock swept to the rescue.

“Their left wing is favoring his right leg,” Sherlock said, and John frowned down at the grass, “and the inside center twisted his ankle in the last play, but isn’t saying anything. He’ll be useless at kicking in the second half.”

“How do you-” John murmured, but Sherlock just scoffed.

“Really, John,” he muttered, suddenly much louder, and John pulled the phone away from his ear, spinning to find Sherlock standing at the back corner of the building, ankles crossed and smile smug, “it’s quite obvious if you’re paying attention. But, I suppose you do have other things to worry about.” He shrugged, ending the superfluous call and slipping his mobile into a back pocket of his jeans. “Keeping all your teeth and whatnot.” He pushed up from the wall, smiling softly as he hooked his thumbs through his front belt loops, rocking awkwardly on his heels.

“You were here?” John asked, taking a shy step forward. “The whole time?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head as he ambled toward him across the damp grass. “Just a little before the half. I saw your try.”

John scoffed, shaking his head out over the lawn. “You mean you saw _me_ try,” he muttered, and Sherlock chuckled, soft and low. “I’ve been rubbish all night.”

“Well, naturally,” he shrugged, smirking as John’s mouth dropped. “I wasn’t here,” he added, smile contagious.

“You know, rugby players are notoriously superstitious,” John remarked, and it was odd, really, how suddenly comfortable he was, how a good screaming match is sometimes just the thing to break through a barrier of gut-wringing, self-imposed sexual tension, and Sherlock looked a little wrong-footed at the shift, head tilting as he frowned. “Well, you’ve been at all the other games,” John continued, shrugging, and then smirked. “You might just be my good luck charm, Mr. Holmes,” he said, and Sherlock stuttered a blink, a swell of smug pride rushing up John’s chest, because finally, _finally_ , Captain Watson could take the stage, John no longer reduced to a bumbling idiot whenever confronted with a leather-wrapped smirk. Turnabout is fair play, after all.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said, flicking a hand through the air as he turned, moving back toward the pitch, “I might need you for more of those observations of yours. Or, you know”—he leaned back around the corner, gripping the side of the building as he poked his head out—“whatever.” He winked—because he could do that too, you know—and raced back into the locker room just in time, the image of Sherlock’s stunned mouth dropping open keeping the cold at bay for the rest of the game.

*****

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m too young to die.”

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes as he let the helmet fall back to rest on his knee. “Honestly, John, what did you _think_ I meant when I said I’d pick you up?”

“A car, Sherlock!” he blustered, and the brunette’s face pinched up at him with confusion.

“Why would you think that?” he asked, bike bouncing as he shifted on the seat. “This is the only thing you’ve ever seen me drive.”

John glared at him, refusing to acknowledge the point, and then looked back over the motorcycle, his skepticism wavering.

It was Sunday morning, Sherlock pulling in to pick him up remarkably punctually considering he was almost always late for school, but they were late now, having spent the last ten minutes arguing over John’s mortality.

“It’s perfectly safe,” the brunette assured, bobbing the white twin of his black helmet at John once more. “I’m an excellent driver; I’ve been doing it since before it was legal.”

“Comforting,” John snipped, but Sherlock just smiled.

“It should be,” he replied, and John couldn’t quite think up a response to that. “Come on, Cap,” he cajoled, shaking the helmet now, “live a little!”

“I’d like to live a lot,” John countered bitterly, but Sherlock only laughed.

“You will, I promise,” he chuckled. “You’ll have your old, fat, bald-”

“Hey!”

“-golden years, I swear,” Sherlock said, smiling far too winsomely to be mad at, but John was still going to glare at him. “ _And_ ,” he drawled, lifting his brows, “think of how much more _exciting_ they’ll be when you can regale your 17 grandchildren with the story of that one time you rode a motorcycle?”

John quirked a brow, crossing his arms. “You have to take me home too,” he muttered, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Fine, the _two_ times you rode a motorcycle. Much more thrilling; literally twice as much. Now!” He waggled the helmet, dipping his chin to peer up at John through his lashes. “Will you _please_ get on?”

John stared down at the helmet, his own hesitant expression reflected in the visor, and then back up at Sherlock, who looked sweet enough to rot teeth, the manipulative ass. “Fine,” he grumbled, snatching the helmet from the boy’s grasp, and Sherlock positively beamed, “but, if we die, I will travel the world as a ghost, learn the secrets of necromancy, and bring you back just to kill you again.”

“A little dramatic,” Sherlock muttered, shrugging a shoulder as John slid the helmet over his head, “but point taken.” He shuffled forward on the seat, bobbing his head for John to climb on, and, hesitantly, John did, his hands gripping down at the seat beneath him. “You’re gonna wanna hold on,” Sherlock said, turning his head slightly over his shoulder, and, though he’d since flicked his visor down, John could _hear_ his mocking smirk.

“I am,” he snapped, glaring even though he too had his visor down, and Sherlock chuckled.

“To me,” he amended, and John was suddenly very glad Sherlock couldn’t see him as his eyes trailed down the line of the brunette’s back, stalling at the narrow waist. “You’ll fly off the back otherwise.”

“You’re making that up,” John snapped, and Sherlock’s head turned back to face forward.

“Why would I do a thing like that?” he mused, and then, in a swift sweep of his arm, he twisted the key of the bike, the engine rattling to life beneath them.

John jumped, arms immediately snapping around Sherlock as he pulled himself up against the boy’s back, which promptly starting shaking as Sherlock laughed. “Ass,” John grumbled, squeezing especially tight, and, though Sherlock wheezed at the compression, he never entirely stopped laughing.

“Just hold on,” he called over his shoulder, and then they were off, sweeping out onto the street with a roar.

The helmet covering his furiously flushing face, John was mildly more at ease with the situation than he would’ve been otherwise, wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s back as he was, and, after a while, he could actually start to appreciate it.

Sherlock was fast, yes, but not unduly so. He took care around the corners, never going too fast or too sharp, and, though John would normally resent being patronized, he appreciated the effort, sure Sherlock would be a little less delicate if he’d been alone.

They talked a little at the stoplights, mostly bickering over which route to take and who was going to do what with the cookie preparation, but, for the most part, they were silent, the thrum of the engine and flapping of the wind the only sounds between them. There wasn’t a lot of _space_ between them either, their bodies flush together to prevent any of the winter chill from breaking through, or, at least, that’s the reason John was going with, ignoring entirely how warm Sherlock’s was, how the muscles of his abdomen pulled this way and that when they turned.

Too soon and not soon enough, they were pulling up in front of 221B Baker Street, the flat Sherlock had lived in for the past two years since his parents’ death, something he’d mentioned once in a way that clearly didn’t invite further questions.

John slid off the seat first, his legs wobbling beneath him as he tried to step up onto the curb, but Sherlock caught him by the arm, steadying him as he chuckled.

“It takes a while to get your sea legs,” he said, face still obscured by the helmet, whereas John was now completely exposed. “You get the hang of it once you ride a few times.”

“Will I?” John asked, the g-force apparently haven’t addled his mind, and Sherlock’s grip on his arm slackened, his black-encased head tilting.

“If-If you’d like,” he murmured, and then released John entirely, dropping his head to secure the bike while John stumbled up onto the curb, almost impressed with himself for already making this awkward. “Come on,” Sherlock said as he came up beside him, helmet under his arm as he ruffled his hair with a gloved hand, “Mrs. Hudson’s waiting inside. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Why?” John asked, and Sherlock smiled, the curve of his lips clearly in on something John wasn’t privy to, but it all became abundantly clear as soon as they stepped through the door.

Mrs. Hudson was wonderful. She was your favorite aunt, grandmother, and the mother you always wanted all rolled into one, with a smile that made you feel special and a laugh that made you feel brilliant. She was also an incredible cook, and pushed massive helpings of crepes and cream on him until he could barely move, and then helped them whip up an absurdly large amount of gingerbread dough, Sherlock’s stirring technique apparently too subpar for her to bear. She left once the cookies started to go into the oven, off to meet her friend Mrs. Turner, but not before mixing them the best hot chocolate John had ever had, which they now sipped at the small kitchen table, the smell of spices seeping into their skin from the crisping cookies.

“Is it cinnamon?” John asked, determined to guess the secret cocoa ingredient, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head yet again. “Nutmeg?”

Another shake.

“Clove?”

Yet another.

“Coriander?”

“What would coriander be doing in hot chocolate?” Sherlock muttered, and John shrugged.

“I only know five spices, gimme a break,” he retorted, and Sherlock laughed, sitting his glass on the table as he glanced toward the oven, bending down to peer through the window.

“Looks like another few minutes,” he remarked, and John nodded, looking down at the slowly liquefying marshmallows of his cocoa.

Carefully, he lifted his eyes, peering through his lashes as he watched Sherlock take a sip, the swallow moving down his throat, and then blinked when the boy’s grey eyes caught him, the corner of his mouth twitching. “So,” John muttered, clearing his throat as he folded his arms on the table, “how’d you get involved in this?”

“Involved in what?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head, and John bobbed a nod toward the oven.

“Helping out with the Christmas festival,” he explained, and Sherlock dropped his eyes, twisting his cup this way and that across the table. “Doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock sighed, lifting his shoulders in a shrug, “I wanted to try out for the cheerleading squad, but the skirts don’t come in my size.”

John blinked, nearly spilling his cocoa as his wrist went slack, and he barely caught it in time, fumbling with the cup to land it upright on the table with a clatter.

Sherlock snickered, peering at him over the rim of his cup as he took another drink. “You’re blushing, Captain,” he murmured, and John glared.

“And you’re stalling,” he snapped, but Sherlock only swallowed and smirked.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re blushing,” he replied, and John turned away, watching the gingerbread for a moment as he tried to mentally soothe the heat in his face.

“Seriously, though,” he prompted, nudging Sherlock’s leg with his under the table, “why’d you do it?”

“Well, I didn’t think I’d be doing it _alone_ ,” Sherlock replied with a small chuckle, but John only frowned.

“Why?” he asked. “I mean, I did it by myself last year, and I know you saw me there because-” He stopped, eyes narrowing as he scanned over Sherlock.

The boy wasn’t looking at him, biting at a corner of his lip as he clasped his hands around his hot chocolate, shifting the mug in an apparent attempt to center the cup on the edge of the table.

John grinned, a bubble of delight blooming brightly in his chest. “Oh my god,” he breathed, and Sherlock flicked a glance at him through his lashes, “you thought I’d be doing it again!”

Sherlock’s jaw twitched, and he blinked back down to the table, sending John into peals of laughter.

“Oh my _god_!” he cried, never getting better news in his entire life. “You did, didn’t you? You just did it because you thought I would!”

“You have no proof,” Sherlock snapped, his cheeks turning pink, and John grinned.

“Maybe not,” he crooned, and Sherlock shot him a wary look, “but I’m not the only one blushing now.” He slurped at his cocoa as Sherlock glared at him, his pale cheeks reddening further in demonstration, and John chuckled, lowering the cup as he rose. “Wanna check ‘em?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded, passing John the oven mitts. There was a blast of heat as he opened the door, snatching out the cookies and setting them atop the hob, and then he peeled off the gloves, swatting Sherlock’s hand with one of them as the boy made to rip off one of their skeletons’ arms.

“What?” Sherlock bleated, pulling back his hand. “We have to make sure they’re not terrible. Children are counting on us!”

John rolled his eyes, and then flicked his hands in resignation, Sherlock grinning like a child himself as he broke off a piece.

He lifted the limb to his mouth, biting off half of it in one go, and then immediately yelped, mouth gaping open as he fanned at his tongue. “Hot!” he panted, and John cackled. “Hot, hot, hot!”

“Well, obviously,” he laughed, shaking his head as he grabbed a glass from the cupboard overhead, filling it quickly at the faucet. “They just came out of the oven.”

Sherlock took the glass, greedily gulping down the water, and then breathed deeply a moment, steadying himself as John continued to giggle. “It’s not funny,” he snapped, but John only grinned, plucking the other half of the gingerbread arm from between his fingertips.

“Yes, it is,” he chirped back, beaming before popping the cookie past his lips, the pastry cool enough now, as well as shockingly delicious. “Holy shit,” he mumbled through the crumbs, and Sherlock laughed. “These are incredible!”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson never fails,” Sherlock replied, smiling.

“How many do you think we need for the kids?” John asked, and Sherlock laughed again. “I mean, realistically? Like, the most they could possibly eat?”

“Probably all of them,” the brunette replied, chuckling as John pouted, “but we can always make more some other time. Maybe even get Mrs. Hudson to make them _for_ us if we act sad enough.”

John laughed, and Sherlock smiled, grabbing up the rest of the damaged gingerbread man.

“Might as well end his suffering,” he said, breaking off half and passing it to John, who took it with a solemn nod.

“Alas, poor Yorick,” he mused, and then promptly decapitated the cookie, Sherlock nearly choking on his piece. John chuckled, the both of them simply chewing for a moment, and then John leaned against the edge of the counter, growing thoughtful. “Sherlock?” he asked, and Sherlock hummed around the left leg. “When you say ‘some other time’- Well, what do you mean? Exactly?” He turned the cookie torso around in his hands, watching as Sherlock lowered his own portion away from his mouth.

“Well, I- I just thought we might- I don’t know,” he murmured, shrugging as he leaned a hip against the front of the hob. “We don’t have to, but I just thought, maybe…we’d hang out without making cookies,” he mumbled, shifting his feet on the linoleum, and it was the most ridiculous sentence John had ever heard, but also his favorite.

“Hang out?” John pressed, hoping for a very specific answer that might overtake the previous statement for his favorite, but Sherlock only shrugged.

“I mean, if you’d like,” he replied, and John frowned, sitting what was left of his cookie on the counter.

“Why do you always do that?” he asked, and Sherlock tilted his head at him. “Say something and then take it back?”

“I’m not-I’m not taking it back,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head, but John pressed on.

“You kind of do,” he answered, and Sherlock turned his face away. “You always add that on there, like you only want to do something if I want to. Why?”

Sherlock shrugged, and John stepped forward, tugging lightly at his sleeve.

“No, come on,” he urged, and Sherlock looked to him, halfway pleading. “Why do you do that? Why does it only matter what I want?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue the point, but fell silent as John narrowed his eyes in warning. The brunette held his eyes a moment longer, and then sighed, dropping his face to the floor. He swallowed, closing his eyes, and then shook his head in a faint rattle, as if a man resigning himself to fate. “Because I want everything,” he said softly, looking up at John in a way that left no doubt what he meant, but John’s brain had ground to a halt at the words, the meaning not computing.

“Ev-Everything?” he whispered, breaths quickening as his heart picked up, and Sherlock shuffled barely inches closer, but the change was like a punch to the stomach, knocking John breathless.

Sherlock nodded, only faintly, his eyes roving over John’s face as he shifted closer still, the grey lingering on John’s lips. His fingers brushed cool against the side of John’s jaw, startling him into a gasp as his head spun, blurring Sherlock even further as he leaned in. “Everything,” he whispered, his breath rushing over John’s lips as the skin touched just barely, and John was going to die, was already dead, had combusted into flames and fireworks and was now a pile of ash on the floor having the most incredible dream, because there was no way in hell that Sherlock Holmes was actually about to-

“Hello!”

John jumped back, slamming against the fridge with an impact that knocked a few magnets loose, a hand coming up to his chest as he gasped.

Sherlock, on the other hand, hadn’t moved, and simply stared at John, hand falling to his side as he frowned. “What are you-” he started, but John shook his head, stumbling backward toward the exit.

“I- I’m sorry, I- I don’t- I can’t-” He blinked, his vision seemingly unable to clear, and he grasped onto the doorframe with one hand, the other coming up to grind into his eyes.

“John?” Sherlock questioned, clearly concerned as he stepped forward. “What’s wrong? I- Did I-”

“No,” John urged, rattling his head down at the ground. “No, you- It isn’t- It isn’t you.” He lifted his face, terrified, and then equally ashamed as he saw the naked rejection in Sherlock’s face, the confused pain John knew all too well, but he hadn’t meant to be on this side of it, to break someone else the way he’d been broken. “I- Sherlock-” he tried, but how did you say something like that, how did you explain to someone that you couldn’t care about them more because you already did too much?

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson started, caught in the doorway as she stalled just behind John, looking between them, and John was sure they were quite the sight. “I’m sorry, am I- John, dear, are you alright?” She let the door fall loose from her fingertips, stepping in to peer concernedly up into his eyes. “You look rather pale.”

“I-I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson,” he managed, twitching a frail smile. “I just- I’m just not feeling well, is all.”

“Oh, dear, you’re not sick, are you?” the woman said, wringing her hands in front of her. “I’ve heard there’s something going around. Would you like some tea? I only have the one kind, but-”

“No, I- I think I should just go home,” he interjected, shoulders stiffening as he felt Sherlock’s eyes piercing through the back of his head. “Try and get some rest before the festival tomorrow.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Mrs. Hudson muttered, patting his arm so tenderly, it burned. “I can finish up here, Sherlock, if you want to-”

“No!” John blurted, absolutely refusing to look over his shoulder. “I-I think a cab’s probably best. I’ll, er, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he added, barely turning his chin behind him. “Thank you for, um, everything,” he muttered to the woman, and then brushed past her, snatching his coat off the hooks by the door with trembling hands before bursting out into the cold.

He didn’t stop until he’d rounded the corner, no idea where he was going, but, as if they’d been waiting for the opportunity, his knees gave out the second he reached a bench, and he collapsed down onto the cold metal, still a bit damp from last night’s rain. Shaking head-to-toe, he bent forward, holding his head in his hands as he breathed down at the pavement, trying to piece together the past few minutes.

Was he crazy? He felt crazy, sitting here now, but Sherlock was so- And he was just-

He closed his eyes, his breathing slowly returning to normal, and, as his mind cleared, he realized he wasn’t crazy so much as stupid.

John had dated Sarah Sawyer for exactly six months, fourteen days, and roughly seven hours. He’d been in love with her for all that time, and then the previous three months before he’d managed to work up the nerve to ask her out. She had been beautiful, smart, funny, and probably still was all of those things, but now she was being them in Birmingham, her and her family moving there the summer before sixth form had started. The breakup had ruined John, making him useless at everything from eating to maths, but, slowly, he’d come out of it; slowly, he’d managed to function like a normal human being again. Until now, at least.

John sighed, sitting up and leaning back against the bench, tipping his face to the sky.

Graduation was six months away, and he had no idea where Sherlock was going, no idea where _he_ was even going. He already liked Sherlock more than he’d liked Sarah, more than he’d ever liked anyone, and, while there were people who would say that was reason enough to say ‘the hell with it’ and give it a go, John Watson wasn’t one of them. He’d tried to make it work with Sarah, lord knows he had, but long distance was something he simply couldn’t do, the Skype calls and text messages never going to be enough for him, and it would be so much worse with Sherlock, so much harder to watch the communication dwindle down to nothing until someone bothered with the formality of pulling the plug. Was six months really worth it if the end was inevitable?

John’s phone buzzed in his pocket—a call, he could quickly tell—and he pulled it out, finding Sherlock’s name flashing across the screen. His finger hovered over the answer key, and then he let his hand fall, the call ringing out to voicemail where it rested on his thigh. There was no voicemail, however, and Sherlock didn’t call again, and, when he could no longer feel his fingers, John stood, wandering toward the bus stop as he wondered if doing the right thing always hurt like hell.

*****

Once again, John was pacing, moving back and forth in front of the door of the gymnasium, where Sherlock was supposed to be setting up the table for tomorrow. He’d touched his hand to the door four times now and chickened out, returning to his strides, trainers squeaking from the rain as he bit at a fingernail.

He hadn’t slept last night, going over everything in his mind as he prepared his speech. It was a good speech, one that would hopefully lead to them continuing as friends with no hard feelings, but, of course, in order to deliver it, he had to open the door. He moved up in front of the wood again, fingers managing to brush the handle, and then he tore away, hands wringing together in front of him.

“Just do it,” he muttered to himself, staring down at the tile just ahead of his steps. “Just go in there and tell him- and tell him-”

“Tell him what?”

“Jesus!” John nearly toppled over, tripping on his own feet in his haste to jump away from the voice.

Sherlock stood in the corridor, a packaged tablecloth in his hand and what looked like glitter in his hair, assumedly a byproduct of the decorating, but John only lingered on that a second before being captured by his eyes. They weren’t blue at all today, but storm-grey and ringed with dark circles, and John’s chest ached at causing it, at knowing his hadn’t been the only sleepless night. Sherlock smiled, a frail twist of a corner of his mouth as he dropped his face, the tablecloth crinkling within his grasp. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Never did get around to getting a bell.”

“What?” John muttered, momentarily confused, and then rattled his head. “Oh, no, I- It’s fine.”

Sherlock’s head twitched in a brief nod, and then his eyes turned away, focusing on the door. “Everyone else is inside,” he said, adding a glance back to John, who swallowed, understanding the point.

If they were going to talk, it’d have to be out here.

He took a single breath, and then lifted his face, completely ready to dive in. And then stopped just as quickly, lips falling closed.

Sherlock blinked at him, frowning as he searched over John’s face, tired eyes glittering behind dark lashes. “John?” he prompted, stepping forward, concerned even as he himself looked ready to break. The heating unit above him ruffled his hair, sending a breeze of leather and sea spray straight into John’s face, and John simply didn’t care anymore, took his entire speech and threw it out the metaphorical window, because the answer was yes, six months was worth it, one month was worth it, one day, one hour, one minute, one kiss, and, before John could think better of it, he opened his mouth and said the first thing that popped into his mind.

“Where are you going to uni?”

Sherlock stopped, head shifting back slightly in surprise. “Um, Imperial,” he muttered, eyes looking shrewdly between John’s, clearly evaluating his sanity. “Why?”

“Are you sure?” John pressed, careful not to let the celebration in his chest get too far out of control, but then Sherlock nodded and nearly every bet was off.

“Yes,” the man answered slowly. “I did early admission. But why does that-” he started, but John cut him off, lunging forward to grab him by the wrist, the tablecloth slipping from his grasp and falling to the floor with a thump. “What are you-”

“Shh!” John hissed, pulling Sherlock along behind him as he barreled down the corridor. “I have to talk to you.”

“Weren’t we just doing that?” Sherlock snapped, struggling within John’s grasp.

“I need to talk to you alone,” John replied, speeding up as he neared his target door.

“Again, I’m fairly certain we were just- AH!”

John wrenched open the door, throwing Sherlock inside, and the brunette barely managed to stay standing, catching himself on one of the shelves

“What the _hell_ are you-”

“Did you mean it?” John closed the door behind them, locking it with a small click, and then turned to Sherlock, blinking to adjust his eyes to the dim light.

“Mean _what_!?” Sherlock blustered, tugging at the collar of his jacket as he straightened it, and then looked around, a frown growing on his face. “And where are we?”

“Office supply closet,” John answered simply, stepping toward the boy. “Only one that locks. Did you mean it?”

Sherlock sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “John, I slept fuck all last night; you’re going to have to be a little more-”

“What you said in the kitchen. Yesterday,” he interjected, and Sherlock froze, eyes widening. “Did you mean it?”

“I-” Sherlock stammered, mouth opening, and then his lips closed, his swallow audible. “Why do you wanna know?” he asked, and John dropped his eyes, blinking at a stack of colored cardstock on a shelf to his right.

“I- Because, I-” He blew out a breath, swallowing hard. “Because I want everything,” he said, and Sherlock’s breath hitched in the dark. “And I- I don’t know why I- Well, actually, I _do_ know, but it was stupid, and- What I’m trying to say is-“

There was a blur, and then John was falling backward, crashing into the door with a bang and quite possibly a concussion, but his shout of shocked pain was smothered by Sherlock’s mouth, which pushed against his with bruising intensity. John blinked, stunned, and Sherlock quickly took advantage, slipping his tongue past John’s teeth with no warning, no foreplay, but John was the farthest thing from complaining. He groaned, pushing back against Sherlock’s tongue, tilting his head for better access as he lifted a hand to slide up Sherlock’s back, finally settling in his hair. The curls were even softer than they looked, and the perfect length, John’s fingers able to tangle tightly within them, and Sherlock moaned into his mouth as he pulled, nails scraping along the brunette’s scalp.

For a second, Sherlock faltered, falling against John as his knees seemed to weaken, and John took his chance, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist and hoisting him up, turning them to pin Sherlock’s back against a nearby shelf. The metal rattled, a cascade of papers falling down on them from somewhere above as Sherlock pulled his lips away with a gasp, planting his hands to John’s chest to hold him temporarily back.

“Just-Just so we’re clear,” he panted, lips red and glittering, “you were gonna say that you-”

“Yes,” John interjected, fingers digging into the muscle of Sherlock waist as he pushed his tongue back past the boy’s lips, but, though Sherlock responded, he also pushed on John’s shoulders.

“But just to be _very_ clear,“ Sherlock said as John pulled away again, and John whined, tipping his head to brush his lips to Sherlock’s jaw, “you _did_ mean you want everything too, right? Like, that sentence wasn’t going to change halfway through and-”

“Sherlock,” John interjected, pulling away from the man’s leaping pulse point to meet his gaze, the grey eyes dark with lust, but wide with trepidation. Calming himself, John smiled softly, lifting a hand to cup Sherlock’s chin. “I want everything,” he assured, and Sherlock gasped against his thumb as John grazed it across the boy’s swollen bottom lip. John smirked, and Sherlock’s eyes darkened even further, the boy shuddering slightly against him as John leaned in, lips grazing up the man’s jaw toward his ear. “Absolutely,” he whispered, and then tugged Sherlock against him, the brunette letting out a dangerously loud moan as John ground their hips together, “everything.”

Sherlock scrabbled at his shoulders, shoving John back so he could reach his mouth again, and then grabbed him by the collar, pulling John in so roughly, he wouldn’t be surprised if his rugby jacket was torn. It would be worth it, though, for this, Sherlock’s tongue frantic and uncoordinated in his mouth as he held John tightly to him, and John smiled into the kiss, feeling more than a little smug. Sherlock promptly took him down a peg, however, slipping a thigh between his legs to slide down the front of his jeans, and John gripped tightly onto the shelf on either side of Sherlock’s waist as he drew away from the kiss with a gasp, the friction sending shockwaves of shivers over his body. Sherlock chuckled, a low sound that vibrated against John’s chest, and then kissed at the side of John’s jaw, his hands slowly trailing down from his shoulders.

“Sherlock,” John warned as the brunette’s fingers reached the waistband of his jeans, hooking just slightly over the boxers to graze cool fingers against the sensitive skin, “we’re at school. Someone could hear.”

“Not if we’re quiet,” Sherlock whispered, nibbling lightly at John’s earlobe as he flicked open the button of his jeans, but John grabbed his wrist.

“Sherlock-”

“Relax,” the brunette said, sucking kisses down the side of John’s neck in tandem with the slow glide of his zipper, “it’ll be quick.”

“What is _that_ supposed to- Fuck!” John bucked against Sherlock’s hand as the boy slipped down beneath the loose grey cotton of his boxers, pumping John’s cock in a single rough swipe before returning to the tip, swirling his thumb through the liquid beading over the flushed skin.

Sherlock chuckled, nosing back to John’s ear, his words hot and gravelly. “Quiet,” he murmured, sliding his hand torturously slow down John’s shaft, spreading the pre-come over the twitching length, and John bit his lip, his head falling to Sherlock’s shoulder with a whimper, “we’re in a _school_.”

John growled, getting Sherlock giggling again, and then turned his head, yanking aside the collar of Sherlock’s tight grey jumper as he latched hard onto the skin just beneath the boy’s collarbone.

Sherlock choked on a laugh, head falling back with a _clang_ against the metal shelf as his grip on John momentarily loosened, and then he regained control, ripping it away from John as he swept his fingers down between his balls.

John gasped against Sherlock’s skin, already fighting not to thrust into the boy’s grip, and he realized in spite of himself that Sherlock had been right: this was going to be quick, and the time shrunk even further as Sherlock pushed lightly at John’s hips, shifting him back to make enough room for him to sink to his knees. “Sherlock,” John croaked, somewhat reluctantly, but _somebody_ had to be the responsible adult in the room, “I-I don’t have-”

“If you thought there was any chance you weren’t clean, you would’ve told me before I even got your zipper down,” Sherlock said, and he was right, but, still, it was the principle of the thing. “And I’m clean, so-”

“But I could lie!” John interjected, determinedly not looking down, feeling Sherlock’s breath on his cock making this difficult enough as it was.

“Do you think I’m lying?” Sherlock asked, sliding John’s jeans down to his knees before snaking his fingers back up, ghosting in tingling swirls over John’s inner thigh.

John bit his lip, hoping he wasn’t drawing blood as he tipped his head back to the ceiling, his hands now permanently clenched onto the edge of the shelf. “No, but-”

“John, I’ve been fantasizing about your cock in my mouth since I first saw you in those _ridiculous_ rugby shorts,” Sherlock said simply, and John made a sound that wouldn’t have been out of place in a death scene, dropping his wide eyes to Sherlock’s smirk. Sherlock tipped his head, eyes twinkling up at him. “Don’t ruin the moment,” he chided, and then pulled John forward by the bundle of denim at his knees, swallowing his cock down into the tight heat of his mouth before John could so much as consider a retort.

John very nearly screamed, and then wrenched a hand free of the shelf, clasping it tight to his mouth. Sherlock’s tongue stroked up the underside as he drew away, swirling once over the head before he took John in even deeper than before, and John bit hard at the inside of one of his fingers, eyes clenching shut as he hissed gasps through clenched teeth.

There was almost too much to focus on, Sherlock’s tongue and small noises sending lightning up his spine, and then there were his hands, trailing some invisible path over the interior of John’s thighs, switching between them with an intermediate graze over his balls at every pass. At one point, Sherlock dipped a little further back, just grazing over the smooth patch of skin, and John’s knees rattled, his hand flying from his mouth to catch the shelf.

“Sherlock,” he panted, aiming for warning, but the brunette didn’t appear to hear him. “Sherlock!” he tried again, dropping his hand to the boy’s hair in a light touch, and then gripping as Sherlock sucked hard on an upstroke, insulting injury by adding a downright obscene moan that vibrated against John’s skin. “Fuck, Sherlock, stop, I-” He stopped, the rest of his sentence devolving to a wheeze as he looked down.

Sherlock had unzipped his jeans at some point, his own cock flushed and glistening as he pumped it within his palm. His lips were red and wet where they wrapped around John, his hair a mess, and he looked up, peering at John through dark lashes and even darker eyes as he sucked John’s cock in to the base, and it was single sexiest thing John had ever seen, including some pretty filthy DVDs his cousin had given him with a wink when he turned 14.

He tore his eyes away, crumpling forward and clapping a hand to his mouth to muffle the sob as he came, lights blinking behind his eyelids. His lungs seemed to momentarily leave his body, his mouth wide open against his palm, but he might as well have been breathing in water for all the good it did, his head swirling so badly, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he fainted. A second later, he thought he might have, Sherlock’s desperate moan not the kind of sound that existed outside of dreams, but the fingernails digging into the backs of John’s thighs were real enough, and John gasped, the pain anchoring him somewhat, a fulcrum as he drifted back to earth.

Sherlock continued swirling his tongue as he slowly released John, seemingly determined not to miss a drop, and then pulled off with a shiver-inducing _pop_ , his throat bobbing with a swallow before he looked up at John, eyes still lust-blown.

With more of a whine than a growl, John bent down, grabbing him roughly by the collar and wrenching him to standing, tossing him against the shelf before pinning him by the mouth, his tongue choking off Sherlock’s gasp. Maybe it should’ve been odd, tasting his own bitterness on Sherlock’s lips, but the sounds made it all worthwhile, Sherlock quivering and whimpering against him as he thrust against John’s hip for friction. He tried to slip a hand between them, but John batted it away, taking Sherlock’s cock in his own hand as he pumped fast, matching the rhythm of Sherlock’s twitching hips.

Sherlock sobbed against John’s mouth, his half of the kiss now entirely uncoordinated, and John slipped off his lips, sliding down his jaw as Sherlock’s fingers gripped into his waist. “John!” Sherlock gasped, head thrown back in an almost worrisome collision with the shelf as John bit lightly at the juncture of his neck. “John, John, _fuck_ , John!” He was shaking, moans mingling with mutterings as his body tightened further and further, and then John took him apart, sucking hard over a collarbone as he added a twist of his hand.

Oddly, Sherlock was quieter when he came than he had been the entire process leading up to it, his neck snapping back in an entirely silent scream as his cock pulsed in John’s hand, fingers bruising into John’s skin.

John caught most of the come in his hand, some of it dripping down onto the floor between their shoes, but at least the clothing appeared to be unmarred, and Sherlock finally slumped forward, forehead pillowed on John’s shoulder as he panted. John smiled, tipping his head to kiss lightly at the side of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock made an exhausted grumble of a sound, swaying an arm to bat against John’s torso. John chuckled, his clean hand lifting to card through Sherlock’s hair, but the air quickly began to cool around them, and they pulled apart, both wobbling a bit as they reassembled.

There was a large package of paper towels in the corner, John remembering from when he’d help stock this room last year, and he ripped one free, wiping his hands clean before bobbing the roll toward Sherlock, who shook his head, waving a hand in decline. John shrugged, tossing the used sheets in the bin before balancing the roll on a nearby shelf, and then returned to Sherlock’s side just as the boy was beginning to tug at his hair. He chuckled, lifting a hand to the curls, even more wild and twisted than usual. “Subtle,” he remarked, and Sherlock glared at him, trying to flatten the back.

“Shut up,” he muttered and John laughed, dropping his hand away. “This is all your fault. And _you_ look completely normal,” he added, waving a hand at John’s chest.

John tilted his head, frowning in exaggerated confusion. “You mean I _don’t_ look like I just had sex in a supply closet?” he muttered, and Sherlock glared even hotter at him. John chuckled, and then they both turned toward the door, voices drifting past outside. “We should go,” he said softly once they were gone. “Someone’s bound to notice you never came back.”

“Probably grateful for it,” Sherlock muttered, giving up on his hair and instead trying to smooth out the wrinkles in his jumper. “They seemed to be getting rather frustrated with me.”

“Why?” John asked, and Sherlock shrugged, moving to the door, listening a moment before throwing it open.

“There were trying to hang a banner,” he explained as they headed down the corridor toward the gymnasium, “and, _apparently_ , nobody but me cares if it’s centered over the door.”

John laughed, Sherlock’s low chuckle joining him, but they both broke off abruptly as a voice behind burst in.

“There you are!”

They whirled around, John positive he was about to get reprimanded for felony fellatio, but found only Mr. Calder rushing up the corridor toward them, a bright smile on his face.

“Been looking all over for you two! Saw the table in the gym; looks great so far! You guys must’ve put in a lot of work.”

John smiled, shrugging a shoulder as he shifted his weight between his shoes. “Not really,” he muttered, rattling his head. “It was no trouble. All for a good cause, right?” he added, and Sherlock snorted beside him.

Mr. Calder didn’t notice, or tactfully ignored it, grinning between them as he nodded. “Right you are. Well, I won’t interfere. Wife always says I’m clumsy as a bull in a china shop, so I’d best stay far away from all those cookies.” He laughed, John joining in politely, and then flicked a wave at them, turning back the way he’d come. “Don’t stay too late! I’ll see you two tomorrow,” he bade, and then disappeared around the corner, his footsteps slapping away to silence, which Sherlock broke with a sniff.

“It was no trouble?” he spluttered, and John glared at him. “It took five hours!”

“It’s for charity, Sherlock,” John muttered, striding on.

“So?” he spat from John’s shoulder. “What, does that mean I can get that time back as a tax write-off? And my flat _still_ smells like gingerbread! I don’t know _why_ I let you talk me out of plugging the vents, but now the whole place smells like the fucking North Pole. And that black treacle hasn’t come out of my shirt, even though I’ve washed it four-”

John turned, grabbing the collar of the boy’s leather jacket and tugging his head down, muffling Sherlock’s outrage with his lips. Before the man could properly respond, however, John yanked him away, smirking up at Sherlock’s owlishly blinking eyes. “Cheer up,” he said, tracing a thumb over the boy’s bottom lip. “It’s Christmas! The season of giving!”

“Giving what?” Sherlock murmured, quirking a brow, but John just lifted his right back.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he drawled, and then swept away, Sherlock’s footsteps taking a moment before following.

“Yes,” he said, rushing up beside him, “I would.”

“Too late,” John chirped, shrugging. “Maybe if you hadn’t been such a Scrooge-”

“I’m not a Scrooge,” Sherlock interjected earnestly, rattling his head, and John laughed. “I love Christmas! All the-the holly, and-and silver bells, and angels getting high,” he rambled, and John nearly tripped over his trainers, he was laughing so hard, clutching his ribs as he staggered. “And candy canes and trees and-and those ridiculous…ly festive hats, which I don’t think are idiotic at all.”

“Now, there’s an image!” John laughed, cheeks aching with mirth. “You in a Santa hat!”

“Just a Santa hat?” Sherlock countered, tone dipping to lecherous, and John turned away, shaking his head at the floor as he bit his lip. “You’re blushing again,” he teased, and John elbowed him in the side. Sherlock chuckled, and then they quieted, steps slowing as they neared the door. “Are you busy? After this?” the brunette muttered, and John looked up at him, a small smile already tugging at his mouth.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “Why?”

Sherlock shrugged, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans. “I just thought we could…I dunno, go somewhere? I mean, if-if you want. We don’t have to, I just-”

“You mean like a date?” John interjected, grinning at the pink rushing to Sherlock’s cheeks. “Eh, I dunno,” he teased, looking sideways down the corridor. “Seems a little fast, don’t ya think? I mean, we just had sex in a closet. Aren’t dates more of a third or fourth blowjob kind of thing?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but John just smirked.

“You’re blushing,” he crooned, and Sherlock twisted away toward the door, John giggling after him.

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock grumbled, but John just continued to beam.

“I like it,” he said, and Sherlock lifted a wary eyebrow. “It’ll go great with your Santa hat,” he added, and then laughed as Sherlock darkened, the two of them drawing more than their fair share of curious glances as they made their way across the gym.


End file.
